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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25928350">Part 1: Brian</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36'>oiuytrewq36</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Will Survive [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Queer as Folk (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:42:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>844</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25928350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>So we dance on the platform for maybe ten minutes, which, if you’re wondering, is a really long time to spend dancing to nothing in the burned-out husk of a building. When I lower my arms, Michael hugs me, and I start to cry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Will Survive [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Part 1: Brian</h2></a>
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    <p>So we dance on the platform for maybe ten minutes, which, if you’re wondering, is a really long time to spend dancing to nothing in the burned-out husk of a building. When I lower my arms, Michael hugs me, and I start to cry.</p><p>We just stand like that for a while, him holding me and me sobbing softly into his shoulder, and I say, not even hating myself that much for it, “I miss him.” An honest emotion expressed without the aid of half a bottle of Beam, ladies and gentlemen, and if that isn’t personal growth, what is?</p><p>“I know,” Mikey says, which doesn’t really help, but it’s always nice to be acknowledged. And it’s not like we haven’t done this before, although it’s been years now since the last time I needed him like this, after I watched my father’s bowling ball rolling down an empty street. I pat around in my jeans until I find the joint I was too sad to smoke earlier - it bodes poorly that I’m the pathetic one now, I think - and fish out my lighter.</p><p>I light the joint and take a drag, then hand it to Michael, who, predictably, coughs and takes an embarrassingly shallow inhale before giving it back to me. We stand side-by-side on the platform in silence, leaning against the railing, and it’s not the worst thing in the world.</p><p>***</p><p>I wake up the next morning hangover-free and feeling just a little better. I make myself a real breakfast for once, scrambled eggs that are somehow both overcooked and undercooked (I know), jerk off depressedly in the shower while thinking about Justin (I <em>know<em>), and then lie in bed and stare at the text he sent me yesterday (<strong>All moved in, things are good, talk tomorrow? I love you</strong>). I’m trying to work up the nerve to call him when he calls me. This, I feel, is an excellent metaphor for the history of our relationship, but I’m going to elect not to dwell on that.</em></em></p><p>
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</p><p>“Hey,” I say.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Hey,” he says back, and I can picture the look on his face, just from his tone. “How are you?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“I’m …” I think. “I’m okay.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Really.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Because if you hadn’t answered the phone, I would have had to deputize Michael to go over there and pick you up from the puddle of whiskey and self-loathing I was afraid you might be lying in at this point.”</p><p>
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</p><p>I snort. He knows me so well. “I think I can handle thirty-six hours on my own, Sunshine.”</p><p>
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</p><p>He’s smirking now, I can hear it in his voice. I want to lick it off his perfect mouth. “I’m not so sure. When was the last time you ate?”</p><p>
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</p><p>My turn to smirk, and I know he can hear it too. “This morning, would you believe it? I made scrambled eggs.”</p><p>
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</p><p>I have no idea why I’m so happy that the following silence is more of a reaction from Justin than what I got when he came home one day to find a medium-sized orgy at the loft. Well, maybe some idea.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You what?” he says.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I. Made. Scrambled. Eggs. Jesus, you make it sound like I’ve never touched the stove.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“As far as I know, the only time you’ve ever touched the stove has been when you turn off the burners while I’m cooking so that you can fuck me on the countertop without me bitching about the food burning.”</p><p>
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</p><p>This is basically true, but I’m not going to give him that satisfaction. “How’s the apartment?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“It’s pretty nice, for New York. Daphne’s friend has a real job as some kind of financial analyst and she does okay for herself, according to her. She’s kinda weird, but I think you’ll like her.”</p><p>
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</p><p>(For those uninitiated to the Brian-and-Justin’s-Fucked-Up-Pre-Engagement-Communication situation, this is a veiled request for me to come visit him. Veils are a sensitive subject for me right now, so I’m just going to address it head-on.)</p><p>
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</p><p>“I was thinking of coming to visit in a few weeks, maybe at the start of next month. Kinnetik can survive without me for a weekend, and I know we hadn’t made any concrete plans, but -”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yes! Yes, yes, come visit, there’s this Vietnamese place across the street that you’d love, and we can go shopping, and-” He goes on, talking about sex and walks in the park and his strange roommate, and it’s times like these that I catch a clear, pure glimpse of the person he was five years ago, before prom and <em>Rage</em> and the real start of our relationship, and I don’t want to cut him off but I have to say it.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I love you.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Brian…” he almost whispers, and God, I want to be there holding him.</p><p>
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</p><p>I slip the hand that’s not holding the phone under the covers and decide to go for the next best thing.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What are you wearing?”</p><p>
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</p><p>He makes a delicious laugh-moan sound, sweet and dark and low, and I close my eyes and let myself feel.</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Most of what might otherwise go here is in the series notes, so if you have questions about the concept for this work or future works in this series, you might find an answer there. I've never written fan fiction before (more on that in the series notes), and I don't think I'll be doing much in the notes of individual stories, just FYI.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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